


Winter Windsfall

by Nightmist



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Sickfic, Snowed In, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), kisskiss, soft, trapped by bad weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24886126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightmist/pseuds/Nightmist
Summary: The Azure Dragoon and one of the rising stars of his order, the Warrior of Light, end up snowed in together. He is not a complete jerk about it, even.
Relationships: Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	Winter Windsfall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TenkeyLess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenkeyLess/gifts).



> For my sweet darling Tenkeyless, who wanted so grumpy pining and thawing. ♥

Winter winds, they do blow cold, but in Coerthas, when they blow from _that_ direction and at _that_ speed, as of the past few years, Estinien has learned to predict for a truly vicious storm to come in the following hours. The sort that leaves a man at risk of being buried in deep snow and ice, to lose fingers or toes, or if he's truly unlucky, his entire life. Thankfully, on this particular early evening he's near enough to one of the small hunting shacks that Alberic has kept track of as abandoned yet sturdy enough to house someone for the night. 

He angles to the west and south, relaxing when he comes around a ridge and finds the one room cottage. The walls are still standing and whole, and while the roof is wearing thin in places, it at least doesn't appear to have any true holes. Something to come back and fix, some other time with slightly more amenable weather. When he breaches the doorway, the interior is dusty and chill and fairly empty, but more importantly, still holds the wind and precipitation out and stocked with enough wood for the night.

A bell spent in determined work grants him a fire burning merrily in the hearth, surfaces wiped down enough that he won't have to endure gritty food, and a chance to spread his bedroll out on an old bedframe that, while battered and sagging, will keep him off the ground for the night. He's slept in far worse situations over the years, especially as a young soldier. _There was that night near the rocky spring bed, before those wyverns… I'm not sure all the bruises ever faded on my arse._ By the time the snow starts in earnest and he has heated water for tea and to wash his face and hands, it's almost _comfortable_ in the small space. Maybe it's not cozy, but it's warm enough, and he's not out in the snow. He finds himself looking forward to the rare respite of quiet and security, a chance to let himself do naught for a night but _exist_.

Relaxed to the point where he lets himself dig the battered out favorite volume from the depths of his bag — and if anyone ever finds it, he will swear to Halone's Halls that he's only carrying it to return to Aymeric, it's absolutely not _his_ (it is, and if anyone finds out the cold and unfeeling Azure Dragoon bears a secret fondness for the great romances of legend...) — and settled by the fire, Estinien flips to find a favorite story, stretching long legs out to let the flames all but bake his feet to remove any lingering chill.

And the Fury-blasted, dragon-damned door opens!

It brings a violent gust of air and a veritable _drift_ of snow and ice, frigid and carrying away far too much of the warmth he's managed to enclose in the tiny building. It _also_ brings the cloak bundled form of a familiar tall miqo'te woman. The increasingly famous Warrior shakes snow off her cloak, lowers her hood… and blinks at him with slow incredulity. "Oh. I guess that's why there was light in the windows. I thought maybe I'd imagined it!"

For a long moment, Estinien just stares. (And, as unobtrusively as he can manage, returns the storybook to his satchel.) _Who believes they just imagined lights in the window in a snowstorm?_ Then, bitterly, "What in the _seven hells_ are you doing _here_?"

After dropping her lance to lean against Gae Bolg next to the door and hanging her cloak, she turns to face him, hands resting on lithe hips. "I'd ask the same thing but given that it was _your_ foster father who told me about this place, I'm smart enough to put the pieces together about why you're here. As you might have noticed, it's gotten a bit nippy outside!" Estinien just scowls, scooting closer to the fire, the dim light turning the deep hue of hair from raven's wing to pitch against her skin.

A sweep of his eyes around the suddenly far too small room makes it even worse. There is nothing left behind in the abandoned building other than the battered table he placed his pack and food on, and the single worn bedframe. At least it looks like the great Warrior of Light still has enough sense to carry her own supplies instead of relying on fame to provide. If he's being honest, he knows the thought is _unkind_ , given that she's proven a more than competent dragoon, but she's still interrupting his quiet time. To say nothing of his _personal space_ as she quickly heads for the fireplace as well. 

He grunts as she pulls out a bit of dried rations and offers it to him, shaking his head, scowl still on his lips. The gold of her eyes glows in the firelight as she eats and while he might prefer to keep his words to himself the entire evening, at some point, certain matters needs must be discussed. Contrary to a fault, he waits until she's mid-bite before jerking his head towards the bedframe, feeling long strands of silver waft with the movement. "Bed's big enough for two bedrolls. If you don't move much in your sleep and keep in your own damn space, it'll be warmer to share it." Definitely _not_ suggesting actively sharing sleeping properly, his eyes warn, with bladed edges as he glares across the small space.

She gives a tired roll of her shoulders. "Haven't had any complaints afore when I was traveling with someone, so I imagine even your grumpiness won't feel crowded." Tossing back a swig of water from a canteen, she sets it back with her pack after and reaches for her own bedroll. Realizing that he is going to have to deal with it _now_ , Estinien quickly moves to his feet, shoving his own gear over towards the side closer to the wall. Not that he wants to put her on the vulnerable edge, but it _will_ be slightly colder further from the fire, and some of the endless commentary he gets being friends with Aymeric guarantees that enough guilt nags at the back of his head to feel some trepidation at the notion of choosing to put a young woman — especially one he knows his friend admires and who might, Fury forbid, _hear about it and lecture him_ — in the less comfortable and warm of the two possible locations. It is not _chivalry_ it's just… practicality.

As she gets her own things into order, he takes the opportunity to carefully bank up the fire so that it will hopefully last til morning, although he mutters a gruff comment to the Warrior about checking on it if she wakes at any point. (To which he gets a rather barbed one back about her not being an idiot and to do the same.) By the point they both crawl into their blankets to sleep, a carefully allotted half-fulm of space between them, his side pressed uncomfortably to the rough and chilled wall of the cabin, Estinien is not anticipating a good night's rest.

<<||>>

Come morning, or what he assumes is morning as the storm rages on, although it is dying down, he finds that he was not really right or wrong: on the whole, his sleep was… thoroughly average. He wakes first and carefully contorts long limbs to climb over the foot of the bed and out without waking his companion. Despite his ongoing irritation at the surprise of company in his presumed private sanctuary, he finds himself dumping enough dried oatmeal into a travel pot to make portions for two and supposes he's simply getting soft in his old age. Or more that, really, the woman _is_ a damnably effective dragoon and it'd be churlish to limit the skills of a good fighter because he can't be arsed to share his food. That's all.

It most _definitely_ has nothing to do with the slightly pitiful way her ears are folded down into her hair for more warmth as she sleeps, or the way she's tucked the blankets all the way up to her chin, leaving nothing but the sleeping peace of her face visible to the lingering pressure of he gaze.

Thusly, when she does wake, he simply shoves the bowl into her hands with a grunt and sprawls fireside with his own, digging into the bland but filling food with more apparent enthusiasm than it really justifies. A little more dubious of the quality of their breakfast, the Warrior settles within the circle of greatest warmth as well, eating at a more refined pace. Then again, she probably never had to fight a group of other trainees to get enough to fuel through a hard day of reshaping their bodies and souls into better weapons. 

Ignoring her attempts to make conversation other than monosyllables or grunts, Estinien collects the bowls and dares the outdoors long enough to scrub them clean in the snow and fill the canteens and pots to melt more water for later use. As an excuse to continue to avoid actual _interaction_ (something that, frankly, he still largely prefers to minimize beyond Alberic and Aymeric; he has a purpose in life, and that purpose is _not_ making other people happy, it's keeping Ishgard safe), the elezen man finds himself scouring the cabin top to bottom to find small repairs and larger that he can do with what he has at hand, skills of boyhood and Alberic's rearing ever finding new uses. At least next time someone stays here it will be a little more pleasant. 

It's not until they try and pool their food supplies enough to make something better for supper than _just_ dried jerky and fruit that it occurs to Estinien that the usually vibrant miqo'te who dominates the battlefield like blazing comet has become increasingly quiet and listless over the course of the day. As they eat a rather thin but at least warm stew, he narrows his eyes, studying her thoughtfully. There is a dulled glaze over her own, and now that he looks closer, a flushed hue to her skin that's too consistent to be a mere blush. Dropping his spoon down into his bowl, he leans in. "Are you quite well?"

He is even more sure the answer is no with how long she blinks at him before answering, nevermind that what she says is, "Just worn out from traveling yesterday, I'm sure." 

Estinien shakes his head and leans across, perfectly willing to get into other people's personal space in way that'd earn them a lance blade up the nostrils if they did it to him, pushing the back of his hand against her forehead the same way the chirurgeons and battlefield chaplains do to check for a fever. _The same way my mother did when I was small._ She feels _too_ warm. A miqo'te might not run the same as an elezen, damned if he knows, but he would be willing to lay a month's drinks at the Knight that they're not supposed to be that hot. "Swiving liar. You have a fever."

"I'm _fine_. Just too close to the fire. Unlike you, you cold hearted grumpy bastard." He wonders if she's aware that the fact that she's actually gotten _mean_ snappy instead of bantering or being good-naturedly tolerant is proof enough that she really is sick. If she is that damn determined not to admit it, though…

He's fine with that notion until the middle of the night, when she's started tossing and turning and groaning loudly in her sleep. With as much conviction as he can manage in the inside of his mind, he firmly tells himself that he's just doing this because he needs his own sleep and he doesn't want to deal with being the one who let the Warrior of Light expire from a simple winter cold. Definitely _not_ because he's actually worried, and _not_ because there's something that puts a strange little twinge in his chest at the idea of the most promising dragoon ( _the most eye-catching_ , he definitely doesn't think _that_ ) he's ever seen fevered and miserable when he could be doing something to ease her discomfort. 

Wrangling himself awkwardly out the bed, he finds a canteen with water that's a bit cooler than the room itself and pours some out onto a bit of spare bandaging he finds in his bag. When it's damp, he returns to the bed, leaning over the edge to gently — _efficiently_ — dab sweat off of her face before he lightly drapes the cloth over her fevered skin.She lets out a quiet sigh in her sleep, soft and soothed, and the tightness of his ribs and sternum eases ever so minutely. 

He means to sleep after that. Instead, he finds himself waiting out the long hours til dawn, replacing the cloth every half-bell or so. Twice, he goes out to collect and melt more snow. When the fever finally breaks shortly after the sun rises past the horizon, he lets out an exhausted breath, curling back down on the other half of the bed. Awkward, but sure that she is under the weather enough to not wake, after rewrapping his blankets over himself, he reaches for the Warrior with the same delicacy he uses in repairing and caring for his armor. _The same care he once used with injured karakul lambs, bleating their fear after another little scrape and bumped leg._ He settles her head on his shoulder, trusting that he'll notice if her fever rises again or she grows pained and restless once more.

Finally, exhaustedly, sleep drags him down and under. The next time he wakes it's because she stirs, lifting a hand to pull the cloth off of her forehead. Pushing up onto one muscled arm, she blinks down at him, looking, quite frankly, bewildered. "Ser Estinien?" She pauses, blinking more, as she considers her body curled against his side, the powerful strength of his own arm wrapped around her back protectively. "... Either I was sicker than I thought or you're so damn good in bed I might not have forgotten my own name, but I forgot what we did."

Until he catches the slight, tired smile on her lips, he almost genuinely worries for her sanity. But no. She's back to making jokes. A positive sign actually. "The first. I recognize I'm no _Scion of the Seventh Dawn_ with your secret Sharlayan knowledge, but a backcountry Coerthan farmboy still knows a bloody fever when he sees one." It takes her a moment or two to decide if she is suspicious or slightly embarrassed, then she inclines her head, leaning over him.

"Fine. You were right, and I had a fever, and I probably needed sleep and care. And I was lucky to have you here. Given that…" Her lips curl into a smirk that shows him the points of her fangs. For a split-second he stares at those, finding a back corner of his mind curious about how they'd feel against his lips, or on his skin, or… Quickly diverting that train of thought, he starts to shake her head, only for the Warrior to lean down further and suddenly her lips are on his. _Kissing him_. Kissing him thoroughly, even, not a quick peck, but… Well.

It's… surprisingly pleasant actually. Warm, soft, lazy, welcoming… And oh, he _can_ feel just a hint of that sharp fang graze his lower lip, a little spicy jolt that sends sparks down his spine. When she pulls back, however, he can see the weariness still in her face. One again, his body betrays his mind by acting without consulting with him first, as he pulls her down to nestle back in against his shoulder, to roost there like the raven her hair reminds him of. Struggling to keep even a shade of his usual growl in his voice, he murmurs quietly, "You still need rest to recover fully. And water. I've been keeping our supply up. Drink a canteen, come back to bed, and get more sleep."

She rolls a little nearer, draping an arm across his waist with a sleepy amusement. “I’d almost think you were worried, Estinien."

He scowls, then pulls her a little bit closer. "Merely concerned for the security of one of the most effective members of my force."

"Cause you'd cuddle up to all the men like this too if they'd been sick?"

"... I refuse to answer that." A slight pause as if he's thinking. "Definitely not _all_ of them. Just the ones that are skilled enough to be worth it."

"Which…" She smiles broader now, and he groans, leaning his head back against the headboard.

"Which you _are_ and not wholly unappealing besides, and I am _very tired_ from tending you, so if you want to continue to receive warm sickbed company, _hush_."

  
The Warrior laughs, soft and warm, and pushes her face against his shoulder, long tail waving behind her as she nestles into bed — into him. “Then let us both rest." Well. There's… worse things he could be doing, after all. Then keeping her company. Then… he allows his mind to consider the word _cuddling_ and decides that, if he must, he can live with the concept. It is pretty enjoyable, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember, all hail the [Book Club](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) which is _definitely not something I say just because it's run by the hypnotoad_. Please, join us.


End file.
